


Pilot

by redcabooze



Series: Supernatural Novelization [Season 1] [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Breaking and Entering, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Ghosts, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Monster Hunters, Novelization, Parent Death, Period-Typical Sexism, Supernatural Elements, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-28 06:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30135708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcabooze/pseuds/redcabooze
Summary: Two brothers witness their mother's paranormal death and are trained to fight by their father, who aims to hunt down the thing that killed his wife.[canon compliant supernatural novelization]
Relationships: Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, John Winchester/Mary Winchester
Series: Supernatural Novelization [Season 1] [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2217930





	1. The Man In The Nursery

**Author's Note:**

> hi youre probably wondering what the hell this is and why i made it. the answer is i am having fun and i am under a lot of stress <3 live laugh love

Lawrence, Kansas.

1983

To call it a dark and stormy night would be nothing shy of accurate. It was pitch black outside the Winchester residence, thunder rolling through the sky, threatening rainfall any moment. The only light in the pitch blackness shone from baby Sammy’s nursery, the soft yellow glow cutting through the ominous shadow that engulfed the entire house.

Mary Winchester’s day had been good. She’d dropped Dean off at daycare, kissed her husband goodbye as he left for work, and spent the day taking care of her baby and leafing through magazines. It had been perfectly calm, which made the sense of dread in her stomach all the more confusing. The horrible feeling that she was  _ forgetting  _ something. 

She tried not to let it get to her as she brought Dean into Sam’s nursery, letting him down onto his feet. “Come on, let’s say goodnight to your brother,” she encouraged softly, letting her mind focus on other things. Less worrisome things. Like Dean’s toes barely touching the ground as he leaned over Sam’s cradle, lips brushing gentle against the dome of his baby brother’s forehead as he bid him goodnight. She couldn’t help the smile that slid across her face at the gesture, joining her son with a gentle hand on his back as she leaned down into his cradle. “Goodnight, love,” she whispered, brushing her thumb carefully through the thin brush of hair on Sam’s head, before pressing a kiss to his head.

“Hey, Dean.”

“Daddy!”

Mary looked up quickly, watching as Dean bolted from the cradle to her husband, hopping up into his outstretched arms without hesitation. She hadn’t even heard him come in. John lifted Dean to eye level with a grunt and a soft ‘hey, buddy’, grinning at him now that they were face-to-face. “What do you think?” He teased. “You think Sammy’s ready to toss around a football, yet?”

Dean giggled, shaking his head quickly, his mop of hair shaking with each quick turn. Mary reminded herself to get him a haircut tomorrow. “No, daddy!” 

John chuckled, shifting Dean in his arms, and for a moment, Mary’s worries faded. She gave a soft smile, brushing her blonde waves over her shoulder as she passed her boys, tapping John lightly on the arm. “You got him?”

“I got him.”

John held Dean close, feeling the toddler’s head bob against his shoulder in exhaustion, and he gave a glance at the cradle, where Sam lay safely swaddled. “Goodnight, Sam,” he spoke gently, and with that, he turned to put Dean to bed.

It had been an ordinary day for the Winchesters. And it would be an ordinary night for everyone else on the block; most people wouldn’t even wake up until they heard the fire trucks outside.

Tonight, Mary Winchester would die.

Mary woke to the sound of the baby monitor, her eyes flickering open in exhaustion as she attempted to process the noise. It sounded like static, mostly, but she could hear the baby crying. She gave a sigh, reaching up to turn the light on, as if that would somehow help her hear. “John?” she muttered, trying to squeeze the sleep out of her eyes as she felt across the mattress for her husband. Her hand met nothing but bedsheets.

Reluctantly, she rose, shifting the blankets lazily aside as she swung her feet out of bed and shuffled toward the door. Mary made her way to Sam’s nursery, pausing in the doorway; John stood over Sam’s crib, silhouetted against the blue moonlight filtering in dimly through the window. He had stopped crying, she noted. “John?” she spoke softly, not daring to wake the baby if he’d gotten back to sleep. “Is he hungry?”

John didn’t look back. He shushed her, never taking his eyes off of the child.

Mary fought the urge to roll her eyes, giving a tired sigh. “Okay.” Whatever her husband had done, that was okay with her; It meant she could go back to sleep.

As she turned back toward her room, though, she paused, glancing toward the end of the hallway. The light at the far end of the hall, at the top of the staircase, was flickering. It  _ shouldn’t _ have been flickering, she thought, as she moved toward it, because they’d  _ just _ replaced the bulb yesterday. Tucked-away anxieties ran like syrup through her mind, and she brought a careful hand up to touch the light. It couldn’t be - she tapped her nails against the glass shade - could it?

As if to say ‘of course not, silly’, the light stilled. Mary relaxed, if just slightly.  _ Hmm.  _ She would ask John to check the bulbs tomorrow. Just in case.

...Was the television still on?

Mary was certain she could hear the vague sounds of muffled yelling and canned laughter, but she’d turned it off before bed, right? Had Dean snuck out of his room again? She began a hesitant decline down the staircase, pausing midway down the steps to see the culprit. She expected to see her four year old, thinking he was so clever, as if he hadn’t been caught doing this twice already - or maybe even nobody, just a running TV with an empty couch; A mere lapse in memory. Either would have been better than what she saw when she peered over the railing.

John Winchester sat in front of the television, fast asleep. Snoring.

Ice filled Mary’s veins, and her heart stopped in her chest.  _ No.  _ “Oh my God,” she mumbled, her body moving before she could even process her emotions. She bolted up the staircase, nearly stumbling into the wall at the top of the steps, and sprinted down the hallway. “Sammy!  _ Sammy! _ ” She skidded to a stop in front of Sammy’s nursery, moving inside without a second thought, only to be forced to a stop midway through the room.

The man in the nursery was decidedly still there.

John Winchester jerked out of his chair to the sound of his wife screaming. He didn’t have time to process before he was stumbling out of his seat, cussing as he nearly tripped over the table leg. “Mary?” He shouted, racing toward the staircase, heart pounding. “ _ Mary _ ?” The lack of response - or even just another scream - sent panic racing through his veins. He needed to check on Sammy. He scrambled down the hallway, his lungs felt like they were shrinking. 

“ _ Mary! _ Ma-”

John slammed open the door to Sammy’s nursery, his breath catching in his throat. There was nobody but Sam, fussing in his bed. He glanced around the room, dumbfounded, as if expecting her to jump out of a closet and scare him. Confused, he made toward his son, resting his hands against the edge of the crib. If little Sammy was at all bothered by the noises, he didn’t show it; he just squirmed in his blankets, looking at his father with a gummy smile. John couldn’t help but smile back. “Hey, Sammy,” he mumbled breathlessly, trying to put his thoughts together. “You’re okay.”

That was when the first drop of blood fell.

John’s eyes shot over to the dark spotting near Sammy’s head, concern pulling the smile from his lips as he touched the newly stained fabric. Was Sam  _ bleeding _ ? Before he had time to check, the second drop hit his hand; fresh, dark blood slipped between his fingers. Hesitantly, slowly, he turned his gaze toward the ceiling.

Mary lay pressed against the ceiling, held there by some force. It was something straight out of a nightmare - her nightgown was dripping blood, a ghastly red strike against the gentle white fabric. John could only stare for a moment, mouth agape as he met her eyes. Her eyes were black. Stone cold black, like beetles. The blood, the eyes, the ceiling - none of that was even the worst of it.

The worst part was how hopeless she looked. How totally, utterly terrified.

Finally, he found his voice, and as he took a sharp breath in, his knees gave out. He fell to the floor, barely catching himself as he stared up at the ceiling in horror. This didn’t make sense. This didn’t make any  _ goddamn sense _ . He was having a nightmare, he had to have been - things like this didn’t happen in real life. “No!” He cried out hoarsely, tears springing to his eyes. “Mary!”

Suddenly, the ceiling burst into flames - it was spontaneous, like a lighter. The room lit up with heat, fire spreading quickly along the walls. John let out a gasp, shielding his eyes from the light. It was impossible - this was totally impossible. Sammy had begun to cry, his little voice ringing out over the roar of the flames.

Sam and Dean.

God fucking damn it.

John forced himself up onto wobbly legs, swaddling Sam lazily and gathering him up into his arms. He rushed out of the nursery, holding the crying baby tight to his chest. Dean was already out of his room - woken by the screams, or the heat, or the incessant roar of the flames. It didn’t matter. He stood there in the hallway, all wide eyes and bedhead, shaking in his pajamas. He looked terrified. John’s heart ached.

“Daddy?” 

John crouched, holding Sammy out. As if on instinct, Dean held his pudgy little arms out, taking the baby into his grasp despite his panicked expression. “Take your brother outside as fast as you can,” he ordered, locking his gaze firmly onto Dean’s wide green eyes. “Don’t look back.” 

For a moment, Dean just looked at him with uncertainty, holding the bundle of blankets awkwardly to his chest.

“Now, Dean!  _ Go _ !”

Dean did as he was told, his breath shaky as he ran for the staircase, as fast as his four-year-old legs would take him. John stood, looking back toward the nursery. The room was almost totally engulfed in flame at this point. He took a step into it anyway, the heat against his face almost enough to blister. No. This was not going to happen. He gasped, stepping back as another burst of flames leapt from the ceiling. He didn’t know what this was, and he didn’t care. He wasn’t losing his goddamn wife to it.

Dean stumbled out onto the yard, the damp grass soaking the bottoms of his socks. He held his brother close to him, trying hard to hold in his tears. He was supposed to be a big boy, now - he remembered that clearly. Sam was just a little baby, and he didn’t know what was happening,  _ not that Dean did either _ . He was _ definitely  _ more scared than Dean was. 

“It’s okay, Sammy,” he said breathlessly, turning his gaze up to the nursery window. There was a sharp yellow glow emitting from behind the glass, and if Dean didn’t know better, it might have just looked like the light was on inside.

Before he had time to process what was happening, Dean felt himself scooped up by his father, swept away from the house like it was a bomb. John ran until they hit the sidewalk, and just like that, the nursery exploded. Glass flew projectile from the windows in a massive puff of yellow flame. Dean couldn’t help but watch in awe, his whole body shaking as he held his baby brother against his chest.

It looked just like in the movies.

The fire department arrived too little, too late; The nursery was toast, and so was Mary. John knew it as soon as the ambulance doors opened and they tugged out that goddamned stretcher. He sat silently against the hood of his car, rocking Sam carefully in his arms. Dean was leaned against his shoulder, eyes heavy with sleep.

When they asked how the fire had started, John didn’t know what to say. He just mumbled that he didn’t know, he’d been asleep - but he  _ had _ seen. He had seen his wife, bleeding and stuck up on the ceiling like some sort of horror movie monster. He had watched the flames emerge from absolutely nowhere. He knew that he wasn’t crazy, and he knew good and goddamn well what he’d seen. 

Tonight, John would take the boys to a hotel to get some sleep, and let everything process. Tomorrow, though...he had work to do


	2. Halloween

Stanford, California

2005

“Sam! Get a move on, would’ja? We were s’posed to be there, like, fifteen minutes ago.”

Jessica Moore stepped out into the living room, adjusting her costume with a sigh. It was Halloween, and, since it was her favorite holiday, she’d dressed up; She was a sexy nurse. Corny? Sure, she was fully aware - but she was going to a college party, and the least she could do was look the part. Her boyfriend, on the other hand, seemed to be having some issues with it. “Sam!” she called again, impatience creeping into her tone. “You comin’, or what?”

Sam Winchester poked his head sheepishly out from the doorway, decidedly un-costumed, unless denim-on-denim counted. It could certainly be considered scary, to the right person. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” Jessica grinned, turning back toward him. “It’ll be fun. And,” she raised her eyebrows, giving Sam a playfully scolding look as she walked toward him. “ _ Where _ is your costume?”

Sam scoffed quietly. “You  _ know _ how I feel about Halloween.”

Parties with Sam’s friends were, at the very least, never dull. The bar they’d stumbled into was alight with corny halloween decorations and neon lights, and almost everyone there was costumed. It was almost to the point that Sam felt a little out of place, shifting in his seat as Jessica set a shot of whiskey down in front of him. She shrugged her hair over her shoulder, picking up her shot glass with a teasing grin.

“So, here’s to Sam, and his awesome LSAT victory.”

“Alright, alright,” Sam felt his face flush as Jessica clinked her glass with Luis’s. “It’s not that big a deal.”

“He acts all humble, but he scored a 174.”

Luis made a noise behind his shot glass, coughing a little as he lifted it from his mouth. He was dressed as a zombie - it was a stark difference next to Jessica. “Is that good?” 

Jessica grinned. “ _ Scary _ good.”

Luis laughed, moving around Sam and giving him a pat on the back - a little too rough, maybe. He choked into his shotglass, setting it down quickly. “So, there you go,” Sam twisted to look at his friend as he spoke. “You’re a first-draft pick; You can go to any law school you want.”

Sam, despite his humility, wouldn’t lie; he was excited. This was a big deal for him. He looked briefly between his girlfriend and Luis. “Actually, I got an interview  _ here _ , Monday.” He couldn’t help the smile spreading over his face. “If it goes okay, I think I got a shot at a full ride next year.”

“Hey,” Jessica tapped Sam gently, turning his attention toward her. “It’s gonna go great.”

Sam’s smile twitched slightly, and he gave a deep,  _ deep _ sigh at the thought of what might happen if it  _ didn’t _ go great. He grimaced slightly, giving an awkward grin. “It better.” 

“How does it feel to be the golden boy in your family?” Luis asked, tone light with amusement.

Sam’s heart sank, his smile faltering further. Right. “Ah,” he cleared his throat. “They don’t know.”

Luis’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, no - I would be  _ gloating _ !” He got up from his seat, tossing his arms out in surprise. “Why not?”

Sam gave a tight-lipped smile. “‘Cause we’re not exactly The Bradys.” He balled up his straw wrapped between his fingers, tossing it at Luis.

“Yeah, I’m not exactly The Huxtables,” Luis tossed it back at Sam, moving away from the table. “More shots?” There was an immediate chorus of ‘ _ no _ ’s from both Jessica and Sam as Luis moved toward the bar, ignoring them both completely.

“Seriously,” Sam turned back to Jessica, who was looking at him with a stern expression. “I’m proud of you. And you’re gonna knock ‘em dead on Monday, and you’re gonna  _ get  _ that full ride,” she smiled, “I know it.”

In the moment, Sam didn’t feel anxious about the interview, or even about his family. A smile slid across his face again, and his eyes softened. “What would I do without you?”

Jessica grinned, shrugging her shoulders. “Crash and burn.”

Sam took her face in his hands, and kissed her.

Sam and Jessica left the party early, dragging Luis along with them for fear of him running into a DUI. They dropped him off at his place, and then went back to their apartment to pass out, leaving a bowl of candy outside for trick-or-treaters. Sam hadn’t been sleeping well, not recently, anyway - too many nightmares, too many things that he would rather not discuss. Despite that, his night was relatively calm. Dreamless, but quiet...until around two in the morning.

Sam’s eyes popped open at the sound of a crash downstairs. It wasn’t loud, not enough to wake Jessica up - but loud enough to wake him. He kept quiet, creeping out of bed and grabbing the baseball bat propped up against the doorframe...and then hesitantly putting it back. Too loud. Too risky. He went unarmed, taking slow, careful footsteps down the hall. He paused at the entryway to the living room, eyes locking onto the window; it was open. He set his jaw, heart rate picking up. It was closed before they went to bed, he knew that. Sam Winchester did not leave windows or doors unlocked.

As if to prove his point, a shadow darted across the other room, barely visible through the beaded curtain. Sam inhaled sharply, making swiftly after the figure. 

Sam pressed his back against the living room wall, next to the kitchen door, and waited silently, not daring to breathe. Surely enough, the door swung open with a creak, and the figure moved out. He was silhouetted in the moonlight, darkness engulfing his features. It didn’t matter what he looked like, anyway.

3…

_ 2… _

Sam lunged for the man, grabbing at his wrists. The intruder turned around fast, grabbing Sam by the arms and flinging him away from him. Sam cussed, stumbling back - he brought his knee up into the stranger’s stomach the second he tried to move closer, finding himself toppling back into the living room. The man followed. Tension blurred his vision as he swung his fists blindly, sweat dripping down his face - a fist clocked him square in the jaw, and he grunted, pain stalling him for only a moment. It was easier to make out his face, now - in the moonlight. He tried to take a mental picture, in case he needed a police report. Green eyes, dirty blonde hair, freckles…

Wait a second. Something was wrong, here.

Sam remembered, quickly, that he was in a physical fight, and swung his leg at the attackers head. His assailant dodged the hit, and Sam attempted a few more misaimed blows before he found hands gripping his collar, shoving him down to the ground. A hand moved to his throat pinning him firmly against the carpet.

“Woah! Easy, tiger.”

Sam, breathing heavily, stared up at the intruder with a confused expression. With a voice to put to the face - as well as the fact that he was now looking right at him, and not tossing his fists at him in a panic-induced flurry - it clicked.

“ _ Dean? _ ”

Dean chuckled, a dorky grin on his face, and Sam wasn’t sure if he was relieved or angry. Both. Both was what he was going with. “You scared the crap out of me!”

“That’s ‘cause you’re out of practice.”

Sam’s hand shot up to Dean’s chest, and he kneed him in the side, forcing his older brother to flip over with a grunt; he held him there firmly, giving him a dry ‘fuck you’ look. Dean grunted, but grinned, giving a hoarse chuckle. “Or not. Get off me.”

Sam obeyed, rising and offering a hand to help his brother up. “Dean, what the hell are you doing here?” He could already feel the ache setting into his limbs.  _ Great. _

“Well, I  _ was  _ lookin’ for a beer!”

The living room light flicked on, and Sam and Dean both turned to look at Jessica, still in her pajamas. “Sam?”

Sam gave an awkward sigh, looking between his brother and Jessica. “Jess, hey, uh - ” Dean and Jessica were giving each other similar looks of distrust, which Sam found pretty ripe, considering Dean had busted into _ his  _ apartment. “Dean, this is my girlfriend, Jessica.”

“Wait,” Jessica seemed to relax, slightly, heading further into the room. “Your brother, Dean?”

“I love The Smurfs,” Dean commented with a grin, gesturing toward Jessica’s shirt; It was a low-cut grey T-shirt depicting a smurf and Smurfette. It was an old shirt, cut up for sewing fabric - she only used it as a sleep-shirt, now, due to the tear down the center. To put things simply, Dean was looking at her cleavage. Sam’s jaw tightened. “You know, I gotta tell you,” Dean approached Jessica with a smile, clearly attempting to appear charming. “You are  _ completely  _ out of my brother’s league.”

Jessica gave a tight, polite smile, glancing at Sam in discomfort. “Let me put something on.”

“No, no - I wouldn’t dream of it,” Dean gave a breathless chuckle. “Seriously.”

Jessica looked at him sourly. 

“Anyway,” Dean moved away from Jessica, ignoring the intense glare he was receiving from his brother. “I gotta borrow your boyfriend, here, to talk about some private family business - but, nice meeting you.”

“No.”

Sam moved over to Jessica, irritated. He rested a hand on her hip, giving Dean a look. “No, whatever you want to say, you can say it in front of her.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Okay,” he cleared his throat. “Um...Dad hasn’t been home in a few days.”

Sam scoffed. “So he’s working overtime on a “Miller Time” shift,” his tone was dense with sarcasm. “He’ll stumble back in sooner or later.”

Dean’s smile didn’t leave his face, but his eyes became more intense; There was a sense of importance behind them, something that said ‘I really, really cannot discuss this in front of your chick’. He nodded, looking briefly down at the floor before locking eyes with Sam again. 

“Dad’s on a  _ hunting trip _ ,” he said firmly, “and he hasn’t been home in a few days.”

Sam felt his blood run cold, suddenly.

“Jess, excuse us.”

Sam huffed, glancing back at the door behind him to make sure it was really locked this time as he followed Dean down the staircase. He was pissed - no, pissed didn’t even begin to cover it. “I mean, come on,” Sam spat, “You can’t just break in in the middle of the night and expect me to hit the road with you!”

“You’re not hearing me, Sammy,” Dean barely glanced back at Sam as he spoke. “Dad’s  _ missing _ . I need you to help me find him.”

“You remember the Poltergeist in Amherst? Or the Devil’s Gates in Clifton? He was missing then, too. He’s always missing, and he’s always fine.”

Dean stopped at the bottom of the stairs, turning to face his brother. His expression was grave. “Not for this long,” he insisted. “Now, are you gonna come with me, or not?”

“I’m not.”

“...Why not?”

“I swore I was done hunting.  _ For good _ .”

Dean scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Come on. It wasn’t that easy, but it wasn’t  _ that  _ bad.”

“Yeah?” Sam felt irritation rising in his chest as he followed Dean toward the front entry gate of the complex. “When I told dad I was scared of the thing in my closet, he gave me a .45.”

“Well, what was he supposed to do?”

Sam gave an incredulous laugh, stopping with Dean just behind the gate. “I was nine years old! He was supposed to say ‘don’t be afraid of the dark’.”

Dean rose a brow. “ _ Don’t be afraid of the dark _ ? What - are you kidding me? Of course you should be afraid of the dark, you  _ know _ what’s out there!”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam scowled, the tension in his voice rising fast. “But, still - the way we grew up after mom was killed, and Dad’s obsession to find the thing that killed her, but we  _ still _ haven’t found the damn thing.” He huffed. “So we kill everything we _ can  _ find?”

Dean didn’t seem impressed. “Save a lot of people doing it, too,” he said tartly, brows raised.

Sam scoffed.

For a moment, the two of them just stared at each other; the tension was thick enough to slice, respective glares locked onto each other. The silence was palpable in the night air, accentuated by the occasional cricket’s chirp.

“You think mom would’ve wanted this for us?”

Dean didn’t like that. The pride in his eyes shifted quickly into anger, and he shoved the gate door open with a loud clang. Sam followed, clenching his teeth. “The weapon training and melting the silver into bullets? Man, Dean - we were raised like _ warriors _ .”

“So what are you gonna do?” Dean shot back, the aggression plain in his tone. He was pissed off. “Are you just gonna live some normal, apple-pie life? Is that it?”

“No, not normal,” Sam argued. “ _ Safe _ .”

“And that’s why you ran away?”

Sam wanted, very badly, to punch his brother in the face again.

“I was just going to college,” he insisted. “It was Dad who said that if I was gonna go, I should stay gone,” he gave a dry smile. “And that’s what I’m doin’.”

“Yeah, well, Dad’s in real trouble right now,” Dean mumbled, trying to redirect the conversation. “I can feel it.”

Sam stared.

Dean gave a shaky sigh, looking off to the side. “I can’t do this alone.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Yeah, well...I don’t want to.”

Sam’s expression softened at the admission, and he gave a long, deep sigh, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with one hand. Fine. He could do this, as long as it was just  _ one  _ trip. “What was he hunting?” he asked hesitantly, voice soft with defeat.

Dean shoved the trunk of the Impala open, grumbling under his breath as he ducked his head under the door. The inside of the trunk was lined with every weapon you could think of, and some that you probably couldn’t. It was an arrest waiting to happen - nothing Sam wasn’t used to, though. “Let’s see,” Dean mumbled. “Where did I put that thing?”

“So, when dad left,” Sam piped up. “Why didn’t you go with him?”

“I was working my own gig. This, uh, voodoo thing down in New Orleans.”

“Dad let you go on a hunting trip by yourself?”

Dean looked up, slightly offended. “I’m twenty six, dude.”

Sam laughed softly under his breath. He hated to admit it, but he’d really  _ missed  _ Dean - it was easier to appreciate his presence now that the anger had subsided slightly. It felt like it had been forever since he’d actually seen him face-to-face. 

“Alright, here we go.” Dean pulled out a stack of newspapers from the back corner of the trunk, flipping through them. Sam leaned over his shoulder to look. “So, dad was checking out this two-lane blacktop down in Jericho, California. A couple months ago, this guy,” he held one of the copies out for Sam to take. He did so, scanning over the text with furrowed brows. “They found his car, but he’d vanished. Completely M.I.A.”

“So...maybe he was kidnapped?” Sam suggested, looking carefully over the presented text; If he didn’t know better, it would look like a normal case to him, but despite his external doubts, he wasn’t stupid.

“Yeah, well,” Dean began leafing through the newspaper copies. “Here’s another one in April, another one in December ‘04, ‘03. ‘98, ‘92 - “ he dropped the sheets carelessly back into the trunk, looking back up at his brother. “Ten of ‘em over the past twenty years. All men,” he plucked the sheet from Sam’s hands, tucking it back in with the others. “All same five-mile stretch of road.” Sam watched as Dean pushed the newspapers back where they’d sat before. “Started happening more and more, so dad went to go dig around. That was about three weeks ago.” His jaw tightened. “I hadn’t heard from him since, which is bad enough. Then I get this voicemail yesterday.” 

Dean pulled out a miniature tape recorder from the weapon-lined trunk, holding it up for Sam to see. He pressed play - sure enough, John’s voice echoed through the speakers, warbled with distortion.

“ _ Dean, something is starting to happen. I think it’s serious. I need to try and figure out what’s going on. Be very careful, Dean. We’re all in danger. _ ” 

Dean clicked the tape recorder off, and Sam gave a shaky breath. It was almost impossible to hear his father through the static...speaking of which. “You know there’s EVP on that?”

Dean smirked. “Not bad, Sammy. Kind of like riding a bike, isn’t it?”

Sam rolled his eyes.

“Alright,” he held the recorder up again. “I slowed the message down and ran it through GoldWave, took out the hiss, and this is what I got.” Dean pressed the play button. The distortion was still present, but not nearly as bad - Sam wasn’t worried about that, anyway. The voice on the recording was the barely audible whisper of a woman.

“ _ I can never go home _ .”

Sam felt a chill run down his spine. “Never go home,” he repeated softly, the reality of the situation setting in.  _ Shit.  _

Dean nodded grimly. He stood up straight, pulling the trunk door down and letting it slam. “You know, in almost two years I’ve never bothered you,” he began. “Never asked you for a thing.” He looked at Sam, and behind the proud face he was putting up, Sam could see the desperation in his eyes; Dean was scared.

Sam sighed.

“Alright,” he mumbled deflatedly, sucking his cheek in. As long as he was back in time for the interview... “I’ll go. I’ll help you find him. But I have to get back first thing Monday.” He turned back toward the gate, heart heavy. “Just wait here.”

“What’s first thing Monday?”

“I have an interview.”

“What, a job interview? Skip it.”

Any sympathy he felt for his brother was quickly deflating. Sam tensed, turning back around to face Dean with an irritated expression. “It’s a Law School interview,” he corrected, “and it’s my whole future on a plate.”

“Law school?”

The tension in the air was back again, and Sam remembered very quickly why he’d left in the first place. He and Dean hadn’t been back in touch for more than thirty minutes, and they were already doing  _ this  _ again. “So we got a deal or not?” He said quickly, tone firm. He wasn’t going to sit here and let Dean act all high-and-mighty; If this was happening, it was happening on his terms. 

Dean, albeit slowly, nodded.

Sam packed quickly, only the necessities - clothes, his phone, a few weapons. He jumped when Jessica came into the bedroom; she looked concerned. Guilt twinged Sam’s heart immediately.

“Wait, you’re taking off?” Jessica swallowed, pausing in the doorway. “Is this about your dad? Is he alright?”

“Yeah,” Sam lied through his teeth, smiling. “You know, just a little family drama.” He hoisted his bag over his shoulder, moving toward his dresser. He heard the bed creak behind him as Jess sat down.

“But your brother said he was on a hunting trip.’

“Ah, yeah,” Sam chuckled. “He’s just deer hunting up at the cabin, and he’s probably got Jim, Jack and Jose along with him. We’re just gonna go bring him back.” He avoided looking at Jess as he spoke. It bothered him how easy it was to lie to her; He was more than used to lying, but he had never wanted what he had with Jessica to be anything less than honest.

“What about the interview?”

Sam paused. “...I’ll make the interview,” he insisted. “This is only for a couple days.” 

“Sam, I mean, please - “ Jess rose, and finally Sam turned to look at her, trying to keep his expression neutral. “Just _ stop _ for a second. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Sam took a shaky breath. More than anything he wanted to tell her the truth, but that wasn’t an option. He gave her a smile that he hoped was comforting, and nodded. “Hey,” he said softly, “Everything’s gonna be okay. I promise.” He leaned down and pressed his lips briefly to Jessica’s cheek, as if scared he might not leave at all if he lingered, and then headed out the door.

“At least tell me where you’re going?” Jessica called after him, but at that point, his mind was elsewhere; for all intents and purposes, Sam Winchester was already gone.


	3. A Woman in White

Jericho, California

2005

“Amy, I _can’t_ come over tonight.”

Troy kept his eyes on the road ahead, one hand on the wheel. It was dark, and he was already going to be home late, which was the least of his worries. These roads were risky at night, and if he was honest, even having his phone _out_ right now was giving him heart palpitations. He was barely paying attention as his girlfriend whined into the receiver - something about how her parents weren’t home, which was, admittedly, tempting. 

“ _Why not?_ ”

“Because I got work in the morning, that’s why.”

“ _So? Why don’t you just skip out, you’ve done it before!_ ”

“Okay,” Troy snickered, “I miss it, my dad’s gonna have my ass.”

Troy’s eyes darted out to the side of the road, and he jumped; There was a figure standing there. A woman, it looked like, with long dark hair and a nightgown. What the hell was she doing out here, in the middle of the night? Was she crazy? He glanced at the dashboard thermometer, lips parted; 24 degrees. That girl was going to freeze to death out here...not that she seemed to care. She was spinning slowly in circles, twirling her dress around herself in trancelike movements. Troy sighed, slowing his vehicle. 

“Hey, uh, Amy, lemme call you back?”

“ _Okay. Love you._ ”

Troy hung up, pulling his car to a slow stop in front of the woman; he didn’t dare turn the engine off. There was a good chance that she was high, and he knew it, but he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he left some poor girl to just...die in the snow. To his surprise, though, she wasn’t a meth head - or, at least, she didn’t look like one. She was beautiful, with silky black hair and dark eyes. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. It wasn’t a nightgown at all, he could see that now - it was a low-cut dress, white in color, and torn slightly at the edges. “Um,” Troy cleared his throat. “Car trouble, or somethin’?”

The woman turned toward him slowly, her arms swinging limply at her sides, like it took a lot of energy just to look at him. Her eyes were half-lidded, heavy with sleep or boredom or...no, neither of those things were right. It was something that Troy couldn’t place, but it made him anxious. “Take me home,” she requested, finally. Her voice was gentle and clear in the night air. It almost didn’t sound like it was coming from her at all.

He hoped he wouldn’t regret this.

Troy leaned over, pushing the passenger side door open. “Sure, get in.”

The woman climbed slowly into the car. It looked as though her body was moving without her, like she was sleepwalking; there was nothing behind her eyes. She wasn’t wearing any shoes, Troy noticed. She shut the door as she seated herself, her head bobbing back against the leather headrest. For a moment, the two of them sat in silence. Troy took a few quick glances over her, just to see what he was getting into; the tears on her dress were worse than he’d initially realized. It was like somebody had ripped into the fabric with their hands on purpose. Maybe she had been in trouble.

“So,” he tried, keeping his tone cautious. “You coming from a Halloween party, or something?” Despite himself, his gaze dropped from her face, resting on her cleavage. He couldn’t help it; She really _was_ beautiful. “You know, um,” he looked away, collecting himself before he looked back at her. “A girl like you really shouldn’t be alone out here”

The woman’s eyes moved slowly, sliding to look at him before her head even turned. She scooted closer to him, her lips parting - Troy felt his face growing steadily warmer. He watched, dumbfounded, as she gripped gently at the hem of her dress, sliding it up until her thigh was exposed. Her skin had a milky glow under the moonlight. Troy watched her rest her palm between her legs, and his breath hitched. “I’m with you,” she said softly - her tone was suggestive. It had to be suggestive, because she was doing this on _purpose_. 

Troy swallowed, and turned away to look out the window; He could not take advantage of this woman. She was clearly on some sort of drug or something, with the way she was acting. And of course, there was Amy to consider…

His train of thought was interrupted when soft, icy fingers cupped his jaw, turning his head to look at her once more. A quiet, incredulous noise left his lips as he gazed over her body. This was too much, Amy be damned. When was the next time he’d get an opportunity like this?

“Will you come home with me?”

Troy grinned, excitement filling his chest. “ _Hell_ yeah.”

The address the girl had given him led to a farmhouse. The place was falling apart at the seams, and Troy felt queasy driving up to it - it looked totally abandoned, like nobody had been there in years. The shingles on the roof were falling off. He wasn’t one to shame, when it came to money, but this was beyond the point of poverty. Nobody had lived here in years. He pulled to a stop in front of the farmhouse, keeping his headlights on. 

“Come on,” he chuckled softly, looking over the boarded-up windows and moldy roofing. “You don’t live here.”

“I can never go home.” It was spoken with more emotion than Troy had heard her express the entire time they’d been in the car together. She sounded like she was on the verge of tears...but what _for_? He gave a nervous laugh.

“What? What are you talking about?” He peered through the darkness at the house again, looking for any signs of recent life. “Nobody even lives here. C’mon, where do you - ”

Troy turned to look at his hitchhiker, only to find an empty passengers seat. His face fell. Had she gotten out? He hadn’t _heard_ the door open. He twisted around, scanning the backseats. Nothing. Albeit hesitantly, he got out of the car, taking a few awkward steps toward the house. 

“That was good!” he called out. “Joke’s over, okay?” Troy scanned his surroundings, feeling his heartbeat pick up; this was very much giving him Texas Chainsaw Massacre vibes, and he couldn’t see that girl anywhere. “...Do you want me to leave?”

Silence.

Maybe...he was supposed to...go inside?

Troy took long, slow strides toward the house. The wood creaked dangerously as he stepped onto the porch, peering awkwardly into the house through the broken glass door. “Hello?” It was hard to make anything out; he didn’t have a flashlight, just the headlights from his still-running car. He leaned into the darkness slightly, looking around the abandoned living room for any sign of the woman.

She did not appear. Instead, a bat flew right at Troy’s head.

Troy let out a shout and fell backwards, eyes widening. _Fuck_ that! That girl was not hot enough for him to put up with this bullshit. He scrambled to his feet, swatting desperately at the animal before bolting for his car. He got inside, turned around, and left without a second thought. If that girl found her way out to the highway to begin with, she could find her _own_ way back home.

Finally, midway down the road, his breathing slowed, and he felt like an idiot. A bat? _That_ was what scared him off? He groaned, slamming his head against the steering wheel and shaking his head. Clearly, he had been the victim of a shitty Halloween prank. He couldn’t even tell Amy about this. His eyes darted up to his rearview mirror.

The cold, dark eyes of his hitchhiker stared back at him.

Troy let out a shout, swerving to the left in a panic and slamming desperately on the brakes; He crashed head first into a bridge block, the wooden boards shattering apart, and he skidded to a stop in the middle of the bridge. Nobody lived around that area, not anymore, and nobody had been on that bridge in years. That was why nobody came out of their house when they heard Troy’s agonized screams, and it was why nobody bothered to do anything when they saw a car in the middle of the old bridge, shaking, with blooded fists pounding desperately against the windows. Tomorrow, the police would be scouting the area and find the vehicle.. Blood would paint every window a sick shade of red, and they would have to pry the doors open, only to find nobody in there at all. The hitchhiker woman would be nowhere to be found, but there would be dozens of cops and forensics on the scene just a few hours too late. 

But for now, this place was completely abandoned, and that was why nobody did anything to help when Troy Squire died.


	4. Federal Marshalls

Jericho, California

2005

Sam had forgotten what it was like to be out on the road. He hadn’t been on a trip like this in years, and if he was being honest, it was kind of nice...if he could look past Dean’s music taste. Currently, they were parked at an old gas station that looked like it belonged to some old hick from a nineties horror flick - not that Sam or Dean had room to judge. As of now, they were both living out of a ‘67 Chevy. Classy. It was hot out, and Sam was nestled firmly in the passenger seat, avoiding the harsh rays of the sun.

“Hey.”

Sam poked his head out to look at Dean, who had just come out of the gas station’s store. “You want breakfast?” The breakfast in question appeared to be a bag of hot fries and a Mountain Dew, with a healthy side-helping of Mentos. Sam snorted. 

“No, thanks.” He turned back to what he was doing, which was rifling through Dean’s box of cassettes for anything that might suit his tastes. “So, how’d you pay for that stuff? You and dad still running credit card scams?”

“Yeah, well,” Dean pulled the gas pump free from the tank, hanging it back up on it’s holster. “Hunting ain’t exactly a pro-ball career. Besides, all we do is apply; It’s not _ our  _ fault they send us the cards.”

Sam held in a laugh. Incredible. Two years, and neither his father nor his brother had gained a shrapnel of honor. “Yeah?” He shifted further into his seat, pulling the car door shut. “And what names did you write on the application this time?”

Dean slid into the driver's seat. “Umm…” He shrugged, grinning. “Bert Aframian and his son, Hector.” He tossed the snacks lazily into the spot between them, where the seat divider in any modern car would have been “Scored two cards out of the deal.”

“Sounds about right.”

Sam wasn’t going to judge Dean’s methods of obtaining money; he had no right to. He knew how things were, hunting, living hotel-to-hotel. It got rough. Usually, there weren’t many other options. What he could judge, however, was his taste in music. He gave up on leafing through the tapes with a sigh, tossing his hands up and looking at Dean.

“I swear, man, you’ve _ gotta _ update your cassette tape collection.”

“Why?”

“Well, for one,” he snorted, “They're _ cassette tapes _ . And, two,” Sam began picking up various tapes from the box, holding them toward Dean accusingly. “Black Sabbath? Motorhead?  _ Metallica _ ?” Dean plucked the Metallica tape from Sam’s hand and ejected the one that was already in the player. Sam gave him a look. “It’s the greatest hits of mullet rock.” 

“House rules, Sammy,” Dean pushed the tape into the player, discarding the old one into Sam’s lap. “Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.”

Sam gave a sour look.

“Y’know, ‘Sammy’ is a chubby twelve year old. It’s Sam, okay?”

“Sorry, I can’t hear you,” Dean grinned and turned the car on; the engine roared to life, and so did the radio, rock music blaring through the speakers. “The music’s too loud.”

Sam rolled his eyes and layed back in his seat as Dean pulled out of the gas station’s lot.

Highway seven was a long stretch of road, lined with trees and other bright, green foliage - it was beautiful, at least, despite the sun beating down against the window. It gave Sam something to look at while he made a few necessary phone calls. He sighed, snapping his phone shut and tucking it awkwardly into his pocket.

“Well,” he looked briefly at Dean, who seemed to be paying more attention to the radio. “There’s nobody matching Dad at the hospital or the morgue, so that’s something...I guess.” They knew he was alive, which was less of a start than it seemed; Dad was alive, which meant he could be  _ anywhere.  _ This  _ was  _ Dad they were talking about. 

“Check it out.”

Sam followed Dean’s gaze as the Impala slowed to a stop; The highway seven bridge was surrounded by flashing lights and cop cars. It looked like there were forensics on the scene...and judging by the lack of an ambulance, Sam was going to guess that whoever they were there for didn’t make it. Dean turned the engine off, eyeing the cops in silence for a moment. He reached out in front of Sam and pulled the glove department open, pulling out a small wooden box. Sam watched in horror as Dean opened it up, revealing dozens of fake IDs; CIA badges, medical licenses, forensic specialists - you name it, it was in there. Dean pulled out a badge with his face printed on it, waving it at Sam with a grin.

“Let’s go.”

Sam swallowed his fear and followed him out of the car.

When Sam and Dean approached, two of the deputies were already discussing how strange the situation was. “No sign of struggle, no footprints, no fingerprints - spotless. It’s almost too clean.”

“So this kid, Troy. He’s dating your daughter, isn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s Amy doing?”

“She’s been putting up missing posters downtown.”

“You fellas had another one like this just last month, didn’t you?” Sam tried not to jump at Dean’s interruption, keeping his expression unreadable. This was nerve-wracking - there was no goddamn  _ way  _ this was going to work. He couldn’t afford to get arrested, there was no telling how it would look on his record. 

One of the deputies turned to look at Dean, a cautious expression on his face. Sam glanced down at his badge for a name - Deputy Jaffe “And who are  _ you _ ?”

“Federal Marshalls.” Dean flashed his badge. He didn’t leave it open for more than a few seconds before tucking it back into his jacket. Sam marveled at his confidence...or maybe stupidity. Deputy Jaffe eyed them suspiciously.

“You two are a little  _ young _ for marshals, aren’t you?”

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “Thanks, that’s awfully kind of you.” He moved right past the deputy, toward the car. “You  _ did  _ have another one just like this, correct?” 

“Yeah, that’s right,” Deputy Jaffe confirmed, seeming to relax slightly. Sam let himself breathe. “About a mile up the road. There have been others before that.”

“So, this victim,” Sam piped up finally, trying to keep his tone confident. “You knew him?” As many times as he had watched his dad lie to police and tax collectors and hotel managers alike, he had never done it himself. His heart felt ready to burst. Deputy Jaffe nodded.

“In a town like this, everybody knows everybody.”

“Any connections between the victims, besides that they’re all men?” Dean asked, circling the vehicle carefully.

“No,” Deputy Jaffe shook his head. “Not so far as we can tell.”

"So, what’s the theory?” Sam asked.

“Honestly,” he sighed. “We don’t know. Serial murdered, kidnapping ring?”

“Well, that is exactly the kind of crack police work I’d expect out of you guys.” Sam felt his heart jump into his throat, and he smashed the heel of his boot into Dean’s toe, having joined him on the other side of the car. Dean let out a noise, but the damage was already done; Deputy Jaffe’s calm expression shifted, his brows furrowing. They needed to get out of here.

“Thank you for your time,” Sam said quickly, gesturing for Dean to follow as he nodded politely to the other policemen. “Gentlemen.” He felt eyes on him the entire time he walked away from the scene, his stomach twisting into a tight knot. More notably, he felt the palm of Dean’s hand hit the back of his head, making him gasp and jolt forward.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Why d’you gotta step on my foot?” Dean snapped.

“Why d’you have to talk to police like that?” Sam shot back.

Dean whipped his head around to look at his brother. He took a step in front of Sam to face him properly, forcing them both to stop. “Come on!” he barked. “They don’t really know what’s goin’ on. We’re all alone in this. If we’re gonna find Dad, we’ve gotta get to the bottom of this thing ourselves.”

Sam cleared his throat, directing his attention behind Dean. He turned, finding himself face-to-face with three officers. One of them was clearly the Sheriff - his badge read ‘Pierce’. Behind him were what must have been FBI agents...or at least, some caricature of FBI agents. They looked like they’d stepped straight out of Men In Black. The Sheriff eyed Dean suspiciously through his aviators.

“Can I help you boys?”

“No, sir,” Dean gave a tight smile, “We were just leaving.” He gave a nod to the FBI agents as they passed. “Agent Mulder, Agent Scully.”

Sam followed Dean to the car, trying to ignore the Sheriff staring holes into his back.


	5. Research

“I’ll bet you that’s her.”

Sam followed Dean’s gaze to a teenage girl stationed just outside a restaurant; She was hanging up fliers, all depicting Troy’s face. “Yeah.”

With the crime scene leaving them with nothing but questions and tension with the cops, Sam and Dean had headed downtown to look for Amy; the deputy had said she was dating Troy, so if they needed information on him, surely she was the one to go to. She would have noticed if he’d been acting strangely before he vanished, right? Dean approached the girl with confident strides, and Sam followed closely.

“You must be Amy,” Dean prompted.

Amy looked up in surprise, hands pressing a flier up against the wall. She couldn’t have been older than eighteen, and despite her heavy makeup, she looked like she hadn’t slept in a few days. “Yeah,” she said cautiously.

“Troy told us about you. We’re his uncles.” Dean offered a sympathetic smile, gesturing toward Sam. “I’m Dean, this is Sammy.”

“He never mentioned you to me.”

“Well, that’s Troy, I guess. We’re not around much, we’re up in Modesto.”

Amy began to walk away, clearly disinterested. Sam followed.

“So, we’re lookin’ for him, too,” he pressed, “And we’re kinda askin’ around.” 

Sam felt somebody bump his arm; Another girl had pushed past him to join Amy, putting a protective hand on her shoulder. She was similar in age - maybe younger. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

Sam glanced between the two of them, looking for any sign of defensiveness or distrust. He found none. It was making him a little uncomfortable how easy he slipped back into the pattern of lying...but for now, it came in handy.

“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”

The inside of the restaurant was cozy - a diner, not too busy, which was fine with Sam. More people meant more possibility of eavesdropping, and if too many of their lies got tangled up, that would be a problem. It was dark inside, the curtains drawn to block out the sunlight. He ordered a cup of coffee and offered to buy the girls some lunch; they declined. Evidently, they didn’t have much of an appetite.

“I was on the phone with Troy,” Amy began. She sounded exhausted. “He was driving home. He said he would call me right back and, um...he never did.”

Sam gave a sympathetic smile. He was careful to keep his tone soft and caring; As important as it was to close this case and find Dad, this girl was hurting. For all she knew, her boyfriend was probably dead. 

“He didn’t say anything strange, or out of the ordinary?”

“No, nothing I can remember.”

“Here’s the deal, ladies.” Sam gave Dean a side-glance when he spoke. “The way Troy disappeared? Something’s not right. So if you’ve heard anything…”

Dean’s brashness seemed to pay off as Amy and her friend gave each other a nervous look.

“What is it?”

Hesitantly, the other girl spoke up.

“Well, it’s just...with all these guys going missing, people talk.”

Sam and Dean looked at the girls, and then at each other, and then back at the girls before speaking in unison;

“ _What do they talk about?_ ”

Again, the two girls looked at each other. Amy looked down at the table, and albeit hesitantly, her friend began to speak. 

“It’s kind of this local legend. This one girl, she got murdered out on Centennial like, decades ago. Well, supposedly she’s still out there. She hitchhikes, and whoever picks her up...well, they disappear forever.”

Sam and Dean shared a glance. There was research to be done.

In a perfect world, Sam and Dean could take the word of two teenage girls in heavy eyeliner and have all the information they needed. Unfortunately, this was not a perfect world, which was why Dean found himself sat at a library computer, typing keywords into the archive search. Sam was positioned over his shoulder, watching in frustration as, with each search, the screen flashed ‘(0) results found’.

“Let me try,” he mumbled, reaching for the mouse. Dean smacked his hand away.

“I got it.”

Sam felt irritation rise quickly in his chest, and he grabbed the back of Dean’s chair, wheeling him out of the way and taking his position, ignoring his cries of protest. Dean smacked him in the back of the arm, but Sam didn’t budge. 

“You’re such a control freak.”

Sam ignored him. “So, angry spirits are born out of violent death, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe it’s not murder.”

Sam backspaced on Dean’s search, instead typing ‘Female Suicide Centennial Highway’. A single result popped up. Bingo. Dean grumbled something about ‘getting lucky’ as Sam opened the article, skimming through the text.

“This was in 1981,” he said. “Constance Welch, twenty-four years old, jumps off Sylvania Bridge, drowns in the river.”

“Does it say why she did it?”

Sam looked further down the screen, letting out a surprised noise. 

“Yeah.”

That got Dean’s attention; He leaned closer, over his brother’s shoulder, looking at the text for himself.

“What?”

“An hour before they found her, she calls 911. Her two little kids are in the bathtub, she leaves them alone for a minute, and when she comes back...they aren’t breathing. Both die.”

Dean hummed curiously, signalling for Sam to continue.

“ ‘Our babies were gone, and Constance just couldn’t bear it,’ “ Sam quoted. There was a picture on the article, he noticed - a man. He must have been her husband. “ ‘said husband, Joseph Welch’.” Sure enough, the caption beneath the photo read ‘Joseph Welch, 30’. He was certainly still alive now, right? He scrolled further down - Dean’s hand shot out to stop him from going any further. He had paused on a black and white photo of a bridge, where forensics were removing a body bag. 

“That bridge look familiar to you?”

Sam squinted. Sure enough, it was the bridge that Troy’s car had been found - the same one they’d been at earlier. He looked at Dean knowingly, and rose from his seat.

The bridge was a whole different place at night; It was pitch black out, and cloudy, not even the stars were visible. The only light they had as Dean pulled up onto the bridge were the Impala’s headlights. Troy’s car was nowhere to be seen, which was good; No crime scene, no cops. Dean turned the engine off as they crawled out, leaving them with nothing but the faded moonlight to help them see. The boys approached the bridge’s railing, peering over the side.

“So, this is where Constance took the swan dive,” Dean commented, staring down at the rippling waves. It certainly looked deadly.

“So, you think Dad would’ve been here?”

“Well,” Dean moved away from the railing, “he’s chasing the same story, and we’re chasing him.”

“Okay, so now what?” Sam furrowed his brows as he followed Dean, feeling his frustration build in his chest; It was becoming more and more clear that Dean had no respect for his deadline.

“Now we keep digging until we find him.” Dean’s tone was defensive.  _ Red flag. _ Sam’s jaw tightened. “It might take a while.”

“Dean,” he started, trying to keep calm. “I told you, I gotta get back by - “

“Monday.” Dean turned to face him. He was smiling, but it didn’t meet his eyes; there was anger in his gaze, and Sam went silent, taken aback. “Right. The interview. Yeah, I forgot.”

“...Yeah.”

“You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?” Dean took a step toward his brother, aggression creeping into his tone. “You think you’re just gonna become some lawyer, marry your girl?”

Sam narrowed his eyes.

“Maybe. Why not?”

“Does Jessica know the truth about you? I mean, does she know about the things you’ve done.”

Alright. Sam could deal with being judged for his -  _ perfectly acceptable _ \- life choices, and he could deal with Dean getting smarmy with him every two seconds, and he could deal with the undeserved backlash just for trying to give himself a future. Bringing Jess into it? That was crossing a line. Sam felt all the irritation and pent-up anger he’d been holding in burst like a broken dam.

“No,” he snapped, approaching Dean with twice the aggression he’d been given. “And she’s not ever  _ going _ to know.”

“Well, that’s healthy.” Dean nodded sarcastically. “You can pretend all you want, Sammy, but sooner or later you’re gonna have to face up to who you really are.”

Dean turned to leave; Sam followed. This conversation wasn’t going to end just like that. He wasn’t going to let Dean just walk away with that smug little look on his face. “And who’s that?” Sam demanded, his hands balled into fists.

“One of us.”

“No,” Sam argued, speeding his pace until he was right next to Dean, glaring daggers at him. “I’m  _ not _ like you. This is not going to be my life.” He stood in front of his brother so that he couldn’t move forward.

“Well, you have a responsibility,” Dean snapped in response. The smirk on his face was gone, replaced by stone-cold anger.

“To dad and his crusade?” Sam mocked. “If it weren’t for pictures, I wouldn’t even know what Mom looks like. What difference would it make? Even if we do find the thing that killed her,” Sam raised his eyebrows. “Mom’s gone, and she isn’t coming back.”

Before Sam could process what was happening, Dean had grabbed him by the collar and slammed him up against the side of the bridge; He gasped, his heart stopping as he looked down awkwardly at his older brother. For a moment, there was just tense silence as Dean stared at him. The fists holding him in place were shaking. Sam didn’t think he’d seen Dean this angry in his entire life, and for one awful moment, he thought that he was going to hit him.

He didn’t.

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Dean demanded, low and quiet - his voice shook, like it was taking all of his willpower not to yell. He let go of Sam and took a step back, keeping his eyes on him. Neither of them said anything as they looked at each other. For a second, Sam considered apologizing, but Dean was already turning away from him. In fact, he was the one to speak first.

“Sam.”

Sam followed his brother’s gaze to the same railing they’d been at moments before. There was a woman there, now, with dark hair and a long, white dress; She was standing on top of the railing, teetering on the edge. For a moment, she turned to look at them, and Sam’s heart jumped into his throat. Her face, for the most part, had been expressionless, but something about her eyes held a deep, cold sadness. More importantly, he recognized her face; It was the same woman from the article. Constance Welch. It was enough to freeze Sam in place, until she let herself fall forward.

Sam and Dean rushed for the railing at the same time, operating on instinct rather than reasoning. They leaned over the railing, scanning the river desperately for any sign of the girl.

“Where’d she go?”

“I don’t know.”

The Impala’s engine turned over.

The headlights turned on, flooding the bridge with light - both Sam and Dean jerked away from the bridge’s railing, staring at the car incredulously. Was somebody else here?

“What the - “

“Who’s driving your car?”

Dean didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached into his pocket and slowly pulled out his keyring, holding it up. The Impala roared to life, and, to Sam’s horror, began to drive right toward them. 

“Come on, Dean - Let’s go!  _ Go! _ ”

Sam grabbed his brother, who seemed frozen in place, and began to bolt in the other direction. Dean followed, stumbling after him. As well as Sam had done in track, no human being could outrun a car, vintage or not; He tugged violently on Dean’s coat to urge him to follow, skidded to a stop at the railing near the end of the bridge, and threw himself over the side.

Once he heard the engine turn off, Sam pulled himself up from where he’d caught himself on the bridge’s underside, grunting; In theory, they were safe, unless the ghost was  _ really  _ that persistent. He paused midway up the railing, heart stopping.

Where was Dean?

His gaze dropped to the muddy ground beneath, where he could clearly see the outline of his brother in the dark. He gasped.

“ _ Dean! _ ”

To his relief, Dean groaned and got up; He was soaked in mud. Clearly, he hadn’t gotten quite the right idea, and had _ actually  _ plunged into the murky water. Sam held back a laugh.

“Hey! Are you alright?”

Dean rolled over onto his back, making a face up at Sam. There was so much dirt caked onto his hair that it was stuck to his forehead. “I’m _ super. _ ”

Sam couldn’t help it. He let out a laugh as he climbed the rest of the way up onto the bridge, shaking his head.

The first thing Dean did, once he’d actually gotten back up, was check under the hood for any damage. The car was completely still, and as they’d expected, nobody was inside at all. 

“Car all right?”

“Yeah,” Dean mumbled, leaning against the hood with a sour look on his face. “Whatever she did to it, it seems okay now. That Constance chick - what a  _ bitch _ !”

“Well, she doesn’t want us digging around, that’s for sure.” Sam sighed, joining Dean on the hood of the car. “So where’s the trail go from here, genius?”

Dean threw his hands up in frustration, shrugging. For a moment, they sat in silence, Dean awkwardly picking the dirt off of his clothing. And then, albeit hesitantly, Sam turned to him.

“...You smell like a _toilet_.”


	6. Family Reunion

The motel that Sam and Dean found was shabby at best, not that it mattered; They were both used to living in shitty motels. It had been most of their childhood memories - in fact, Sam couldn’t remember the last time he had actually lived in a house. Maybe that was why he’d left, but that was neither here nor there. Right now, his focus was getting Dean to take a shower.

The front desk clerk was an elderly man, who, while kindly upon first glance, made a bit of a face when they walked in. Sam couldn’t really blame him; Dean looked - and smelled - like he had just got done rolling around in the world's biggest pile of manure. His brother dropped his credit card on the desk in front of him with an awkward smile. 

“One room, please.”

The clerk eyed them warily, turning over the card in his hands. Nervously, Sam watched his eyes skim over the name on the card.

“You guys havin’ a reunion or somethin’?”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked, giving a confused smile.

“That other guy, Bert Aframian,” the clerk nodded to the left. “He came in and bought out a room for the whole month.”

The brother’s faces fell. They glanced at each other, not even having to say it out loud;  _ Dad _ .

Sam had to admit, as the door to ‘Bert Afriamian’s room swung open, that keeping up with his lock-picking skills hadn’t been quite as useless as he’d initially assumed. The room was empty, and in total disarray; The bed was unmade, and there were newspaper clippings and book pages pinned to the wall chaotically. It looked a little bit like the motel room of a serial killer, but, of course, Sam knew better.

Most notably, there was no Dad.

Dean squeezed past Sam, making a beeline for a half-eaten hamburger sitting on the bedside table. He turned the lamp on, bringing the burger to his face and taking a quick inhale. Immediately he recoiled, nose wrinkling, and he dropped the burger back onto the table.

“Ugh...I don’t think he’s been here for a couple days, at least.”

Sam was preoccupied, crouched near the front door; There was a line of salt, unbroken. He took a bit between his fingers, frowning. 

“Salt,” he let the granules fall from his fingers, “Cats eye shells...he was worried. Trying to keep something from coming in.” He watched as Dean approached a wall covered in various pages, thumbtacked into the wallpaper. On further glance, most of them appeared to be missing persons fliers. Hesitantly, he got up to look. “What have you got here?”

“Centennial highway victims,” Dean mumbled, gazing over the wall. “I don’t get it. I mean, different men, different jobs, ages, ethnicities...there's always a connection, right? What do these guys have in common?”

Sam turned his thoughts over in his mind, approaching a different wall; This one was covered in clippings from various books, torn-out drawings and pieces of text. He glanced between them, trying to piece something together. Finally, something caught his eye; The same newspaper article that he’d read at the library, the one about Constance Welch. It was pieced together with various other papers, all under a slip of paper labeled ‘Woman In White’. He turned on the lamp for a better look, scoffing under his breath.

“Dad figured it out.”

“What do you mean?” Dean looked over at him, quirking a brow. He moved over to join him, looking over the wall of information.

“He found the same article we did,” Sam gestured at the newspaper clipping. “Constance Welch. She’s a woman in white.”

Dean glanced over the victims against, the pieces clicking together. Women in white only targeted men who were disloyal; All these scumbags were cheaters.

“You sly dogs.”

He turned back to look at Sam again, shaking his head.

“Alright, so if we’re dealing with a woman in white, Dad would’ve found the corpse and destroyed it.”

“She might have another weakness.”

“No...Dad would wanna make sure. He’d dig her up. Does it say where she’s buried?”

“No, not that I could tell,” Sam paused, tapping his fingers against the photo of Joseph Welch. “If I were Dad, though, I’d go ask her husband...if he’s still alive.” 

Dean hummed curiously. When he did so, flakes of dirt fell from his face. Right.

“Alright, why don’t you see if you can find an address? I’m gonna get cleaned up.”

Sam paused, swallowing, and watched as Dean walked toward the shower. Guilt was clawing at his chest; He had to say something.

“Hey, Dean?”

Dean turned.

“What I said earlier, about Mom and Dad…” Sam sighed. “I’m sorry.” To his surprise (or maybe relief) Dean rose a hand, as if to tell him to stop. He grinned.

“No chick-flick moments.”

Sam chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.

“Alright, jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Sam scoffed lightly, watching Dean as he moved into the motel’s dingy bathroom. As he did so, something caught his eye; There was a photograph tucked into the mirror frame. Sam took a few steps toward it, plucking it carefully from the glass. It was a worn picture of him, Dean, and Dad - he couldn’t have been older than four. They were all seated on the Impala’s hood, smiling. Together.

Sam’s heart ached terribly, and he wasn’t sure if it was because Dad had kept the photo in the first place, or because he had left it behind.

He should call Jessica.

Jess had left him a voicemail, which immediately filled Sam’s chest with guilt. He cussed under his breath, letting it play.

“ _ Hey, it’s me. It’s about 10:20…. _ ”

Just then, Dean came out of the bathroom, fully dressed. His hair was still damp. Sam paused the voicemail, looking up at him briefly. Dean grabbed his father’s leather jacket as he made a beeline for the door. 

“Hey, man, I’m starving, I’m gonna go grab something from that diner down the street. You want anything?”

“No.”

“Aframian’s buying.”

“Mnh-mnh.”

Dean shrugged, and moved out of the motel room, shrugging his jacket onto his shoulders. He headed for his car...and then paused, his gaze falling on a group of officers across the parking lot. A group of officers he recognized. Deputy Jaffe, who was under the impression that he was a federal marshall, was talking to the desk clerk, who was under the impression that he was a man named Hector Aframian here for a family reunion. Shit. Across the way, the clerk caught his eye, and pointed directly at him.  _ Double shit!  _

Quickly, he turned around, fumbling for his phone to call Sam. He was toast, but they didn’t both have to be. Sam picked up quickly, sounding annoyed.

“ _What?_ ”

“Dude, five-o. Take off.”

“ _What about you?_ ” The shift in Sam’s tone was immediate, annoyance replaced with mild panic. Dean chuckled.

“Uh, they kinda spotted me. Go find Dad.”

Dean hung up, twirling around to face Deputy Jaffe with a wide, awkward grin. He was flanked by another deputy, and neither of them looked happy. Deputy Jaffe crossed his arms, giving Dean a stern look.

“Problem, officers?”

"Where’s your partner?”

“Partner?” Dean laughed nervously. “What - what partner?”

Deputy Jaffe thumbed toward the motel room, and the other officer began to approach. Dean sucked his cheek in.  _ Triple shit _ .

“So,” the Deputy began, “Fake U.S. Marshal, fake credit cards...you got anything that’s real?”

Dean nodded sincerely, a charming smile spreading across his face.

“My boobs.”

Within seconds, Dean found himself bent over the hood of a cop car, being cuffed. He vaguely heard the Deputy behind him reading him his rights, but his eyes were focused on the motel room door. At this point, Sam was his only hope.

If that kid got caught, he was done for. 


	7. 35-111

“So, you want to give us your real name?”

Dean sunk lazily into his hair, looking around the room he was in. He never had liked police stations, but of course, he never had liked police. This wasn’t an issue, though, not really anyway - he’d spent his childhood lying to authority figures, and he had no issue doing it now. He gave a smug grin to the Sheriff as he sat across from him.

“I told you! It’s Nugent, Ted Nugent.”

“I’m not sure you realize just how much trouble you’re in, here.”

“We talkin’, like, misdemeanor kind of trouble, or, uh,” Dean battered his eyelashes. “ ‘Squeal like a pig’ kinda trouble?”

“You got the faces of ten missing persons taped to your wall,” the Sheriff barked. “Along with a whole lotta satanic mumbo jumbo. Boy, you are officially a suspect.”

Dean rolled his eyes.

“That makes sense, ‘cause when the first one went missing in ‘82, I was three.”

“I know you got partners. One of ‘ems an older guy. Maybe he started the whole thing.” The Sheriff began rummaging around in his evidence box, seeming unbothered. “So tell me, Dean...”

Dean’s face dropped, and so did his heart.

The Sheriff tossed a leather-bound notebook in front of Dean. Dean recognized it immediately, and his stomach twisted with anxiety. Dad’s old hunting journal.

“Is this his?”

Dean didn’t say a word. He stared at the notebook, fingers twitching. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Sheriff move over to him, sitting down on the table. 

“I thought that might be your name.”

The Sheriff opened the journal and began flipping through the table. Dean clenched his teeth, rage bubbling up in his head faster than a pot of water. He wanted to cut this guy’s  _ fucking _ fingers off. That was Dad’s journal, god damn it - he had no right to even touch it. He struggled to keep his expression neutral.

“See, I leafed through this,” the Sheriff scoffed, “I mean...what little I could make out. See, it’s nine kinds of crazy...but I found this, too.” The Sheriff settled on a page near the back of the book, tapping his fingers on it.

DEAN

35-111

Dean’s breath caught in his throat.

“Now, you’re stayin’ right here until you tell me  _ exactly _ what the hell that means.”

* * *

“Hi, uh, are you Joseph Welch?”

Sam felt weird, doing this without Dean, but he had told him to find Dad. Besides; He would be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying getting to do a hunt again. For all intents and purposes, this was his first solo hunt, and he was close to something. He could feel it.

The man that answered the door was elderly, and he looked exhausted. Sam also felt lucky that he hadn’t come to the door with a gun; His eyes were full of distrust. It made him a little anxious.

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you a couple questions?”

Dad was his priority, which was why Sam had tucked the photograph from the motel room into his pocket. He showed it to Joseph, tapping on Dad in the center - he just needed to know if he had been here.

“Yeah,” Joseph took the photo into his shaky hands, frowning. “He was older, but that’s him. Came by about three or four days ago, said he was a reporter.”

“That’s right, we’re working on a story together.”

“Well, I don’t know what the hell kinda story you’re working on,” Joseph mumbled. “The kind of questions he asked me.” 

“About your late wife, Constance?”

Joseph glared at him, narrowing his eyes.

“He asked me where she was  _ buried _ .”

Sam silently cursed his father, and whatever forces above, for making him bother this poor old man. He gave an awkward smile.

“And...where is that, again?”

“What, I gotta go through these twice?”

“It’s fact-checking. If you don’t mind.”

Joseph paused, as if he wanted to decline. He gave a sigh, his shoulders slumping.

“In a plot, behind my old place over on Breckenridge.”

Noted.

“And why did you move?”

“I’m not gonna live in the house where my children died.”

Sam took a sharp breath in. He didn’t want to have to do this, but something wasn’t adding up, and he knew it. Women in white were almost always born of infidelity...which meant he was about to make Joseph very, very upset.

“Mr. Welch,” he hesitated. “Did you ever marry again?”

“No way. Constance - she was the love of my life. Prettiest woman I’d ever known.” As he spoke, a fond, sad smile slid over his face. Sam would have felt guilty, if he didn’t know the truth. If Joseph hadn’t remarried….

“So you had a happy marriage?”

At that, Joseph seemed to hesitate. The guilt in Sam’s chest dissipated; his brow twitched.

“...Definitely,” he answered, slowly.

“Well, that should do it,” Sam gave a tight smile. “Thanks for your time.”

Joseph nodded, heading back toward his home, and Sam gave a dissatisfied sigh. He paused outside of Dean’s car, fiddling with the keys. He had the information he needed about Dad; Whatever marital problems this guy had had with Mrs. Welch, it wasn’t his business. He could live without knowing.

...Yeah,  _ right _ .

“Mr. Welch, you ever hear of a woman in white?”

Joseph turned around, his expression incredulous. 

“A what?”

“A woman in white. Or sometimes a weeping woman.” Joseph looked lost. “It’s a ghost story. Well, it’s more of a phenomenon, really, um...they’re spirits.” Sam began to approach him again, tucking the keys into his pocket. “They’ve been sighted for hundreds of years, dozens of places. In Hawaii and Mexico, lately in Arizona and Indiana. All these are different women, you understand, but all share the same story.”

Joseph shook his head in awe, taking a step back.

“Boy, I don’t care much for nonsense.”

“You see, when they were alive, their husbands were unfaithful to them,” Sam insisted. “And these women, basically suffering from temporary insanity, murdered their children. Then, once they realized what they’d done, they took their own lives. So now their spirits are cursed. Walking back roads, waterways, and if they find an unfaithful man they kill him, and that man is never seen again.”

Joseph’s eyes were dark with rage; His bottom lip was quivering violently, and tears were sprouting at the corners of his eyes.

“You think…” his voice shuddered. “You think...that had something to do with Constance? You  _ smartass _ ?” Joseph had begun to approach him again, his shoulders trembling. Sam remained expressionless.

“You tell me.”

Joseph grit his teeth.

“I mean maybe - maybe I made some mistakes, but no matter what I did, Constance  _ never  _ would’ve killed her own children.” Joseph was clearly holding back a sob as he pointed aggressively at the Impala. “Now you get the hell outta here, and you don’t come back.”

Sam watched as Joseph walked away from him, back into his home. Finally, his blank slate fell, and he felt the urge to cry. He didn’t. He just sighed, looking at the ground for a long, silent moment, and then turned back to the car. 

* * *

“I don’t know how many times I gotta tell you. It’s my high-school locker combo.”

“Are we gonna do this all night long?”

Dean stared intently at the number on the page. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew exactly what that meant, and why Dad had left it for him, but he’d die before letting this _ piggy bastard _ know. The door to the Sheriff’s office creaked open, and a Deputy poked his head in, looking concerned.

“We just got a 911. Shots fired over at Whiteford Road.”

The Sheriff sighed, looking toward Dean with a frown. 

“Do you have to go to the bathroom?” 

Dean blinked in confusion.

“...No?

“Good.”

The Sheriff handcuffed Dean’s wrist to the table, tucking the key into his pocket as he left the room. Great. Dean sighed, yanking on the chain. He scanned his surroundings only briefly, his fingertips finding a paperclip tucked into his father’s journal. He hummed softly as he began to twist it apart. These guys weren’t too bright, were they?

Dean waited until every cop in the precinct was gone, waiting carefully beside the door until he couldn’t hear a single other person; He tucked Dad’s journal into his jacket, slipping outside. He felt lucky that it was dark...and even luckier to have a phone booth not a block away.

Sam picked up immediately.

“Fake 911 phone call, Sammy? I dunno, that’s pretty illegal!”

“ _ You’re welcome. _ ”

Dean grinned. He had never been happier to hear his snarky little brother in his life.

“Hey, listen, we gotta talk.”

“ _ Tell me about it. So, the husband was unfaithful. We are dealing with a woman in white. And she’s buried behind her old house, which must have been Dad’s next stop -  _ “

“Sammy, would you shut up for a second?”

“ _ I just can’t figure out why he hasn’t destroyed the corpse, yet. _ ”

“Well, that’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Dean took a deep breath. “He’s gone. Dad left Jericho.”

“ _ What?! How do you know? _ ”

Dean looked down at the leather-bound notebook in his hands, sucking his cheek in. 

“I’ve got his journal.”

“ _...Dad doesn’t go anywhere without that thing. _ ”

“Well, he did this time.”

“ _ What’s it say? _ ”

“Ugh. Same old ex-marine crap, when he wants us to know where he’s going _. _ ” 

“ _ Coordinates. Where to? _ ”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“ _ Dean, what the hell is going on? _ ”

Dean didn’t have time to respond. Suddenly, the only thing audible was the screeching of tires and Sam shouting in alarm.

“Sam?! Sam!”

The line was dead.


	8. Take Me Home

Sam skidded to a stop in the middle of the road; There had been a woman standing there...except that there hadn’t. Not really. If there had, he would have hit something. He took a moment to breathe, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. His eyes darted up to his rearview mirror, heart jumping; Sure enough, Constance Welch was in the backseat, and she didn’t look happy one bit.

“Take me home.”

Sam ignored her, staring at her through the mirror. He wasn’t playing this game.

“Take. Me.  _ Home _ .”

“No.”

Constance looked at him in confusion, and for a moment, he thought he’d won...and then, with an audible click, all of the car doors locked. Sam began frantically attempting to pull the door locks up, grunting with the effort; It was in vain, and while he was distracted, the car kicked into gear on it’s own, and sped forward. God _ damn it _ .

Sam took a shaky breath as the car pulled to a stop in front of an old farmhouse. This was Joseph’s old house, he realized - the one he had mentioned. This was where Constance was buried. The car turned off, and Sam sat still in the darkness, keeping an eye on Constance through the windshield.

“Don’t do this.”

Constance only shook her head. She didn’t seem to hear him - not really, anyway.

“I can never go home.”

Sam stared ahead, at the house, realization hitting him square in the face.

“You’re scared to go home.”

Suddenly, Constance was on him, pressing her body against his. Sam gasped, recoiling - she was like ice, and her fingers on his neck burnt his skin. Fear gripped his body. He grunted, trying desperately to squirm away, but she was strong. Too strong. She stared down at him with blank eyes, sliding her hands over his chest.

“Hold me. I’m so  _ cold _ .”

Discomfort moved through Sam’s body like shockwaves, and he let out a cry of pain. Constance even being near him - on him -  _ hurt _ . He could barely even struggle, gritting his teeth.

“You can’t - kill me,” he sputtered. “I’m not unfaithful. I-I’ve never been.”

Constance leaned in close, until her icy lips touched the shell of his ear, and she whispered.

“You will be.”

Constance kissed him.

Sam did not kiss back, trying to pull his face away - helplessness was overtaking him quickly. He tried to force his lips closed, tried to twist his head away from her grip - his eyes landed on the keys. He reached for the ignition, grunting against his assailant’s mouth. As he got a hand on them, suddenly, she vanished.

Sam took a few deep breaths, looking around incredulously. She was gone? Just like that?

Oh, fuck.

Sam let out an agonized scream as pain gripped his chest. It felt like somebody was trying to push their fingers through his skin and rip his heart out. He thrashed, eyes wide, trying to pull at his shirt - within moments, Constance reappeared. Sure enough, she was digging her fingers into his chest...and she wasn’t beautiful anymore. She looked skeletal, like a soggy corpse, her skin almost blue in color. Her teeth were visible. That said, Sam didn’t have time to be scared; For all he knew, he was about to die.

Suddenly, gunfire rang through the night air, and the window shattered. Constance vanished again, and the pain let up. Sam sputtered in shock, sitting up. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dean through the window, holding a pistol - he didn’t have time. He knew what he had to do. Sam turned the engine over, gripping the steering wheel tight.

“I’m takin’ you home.”

He stepped down hard on the gas, bringing the vehicle racing toward the front of the house; It smashed through the wood, landing him in the living room. He vaguely heard Dean scream his name, but he wasn’t paying attention. He drove until the front of the car smacked against something hard, forcing him to a stop; His head hit the steering wheel, and he grunted.

“Sam!”

That, he heard.

Dean pulled the car door open, his face alight with concern.

“Are you alright?

“Yeah.”

“Can you move?”

“Yeah. Help me.”

Dean did so; He took his brother under the arm, hoisting him up out of the vehicle with a grunt. Sam stumbled to his feet, brushing himself off.

Constance wasn’t gone.

Neither of the boys had time to process before a dresser flew across the room, trapping them both against the car. Both of them grunted, immediately attempting to push the dresser away - no such luck. Constance approached slowly, looking twice as pissed as she had before. Electricity crackled, lighting the ancient fixtures up brightly...which seemed to catch her attention as much as it did theirs.

Sam and Dean looked around for another spirit, confusion scattering their thoughts - and Constance’s, so it seemed. Suddenly, the staircase began to drip; Water poured down in buckets, soaking the walls and the floor. Sam took a sharp breath in.

_The kids._

Sam followed Constance’s gaze to the top of the staircase, where two small silhouettes stood. Soaked. Dripping from head to toe in water. Neither of them could have been older than ten. They joined hands, speaking gently and in unison.

“You’ve come home to us, mommy.”

Constance shook her head, trying to back away - the children flickered into the space behind her, looking up with forlorn eyes. They reached out to hold her, wrapping their little arms around her tightly, soaking her dress.

She let out an agonized wail.

Sam had never seen a ghost die. Not like this. Usually, it was a burst of flame, or they just faded out...this was something violent. Constance’s entire frame seemed to meld, jerking violently, lighting up the room with her pain. The air was heavy with guilt. She sobbed, and screamed, and flashed red and white and blue and green -

And then, suddenly, she just...wasn’t.

The room was completely empty, aside from the brothers. They stood together in silence for a moment before realizing they could now move the dresser. Sam grunted, pushing it away from him. 

The boys approached the spot where Constance had disappeared. There was nothing there now but a large puddle. No sign that there had been a woman at all. 

“So...this is where she drowned her kids?”

Sam nodded.

“That’s why she could never go home. She was too scared to face ‘em.”

“You found her weak spot. Nice work, Sammy.”

Very intentionally, Dean gave Sam a nice hard pat against the chest. Sam let out a grunt of pain, followed by a laugh, bringing his hand up to his chest. He turned to his brother, grinning brightly.

“Yeah, I wish I could say the same for you! What were you thinking shooting Casper in the face, you freak?”

“Hey, saved your ass!” Dean shrugged, grinning back. He frowned deeply at the Impala, walking over to it and crouching, squinting for any sort of damage. “I’ll tell you another thing. If you screwed up my car,” he turned back to look at Sam. “I’ll kill you.”

Sam laughed.


	9. Burn, Baby, Burn.

The car ride away from Jericho wasn’t tense - not like it had been driving there. Sam felt good. He had saved a lot of future victims, and put a spirit to rest - that was something to feel good about, right? For the first time in a while, he felt comfortable riding next to Dean. He thumbed over the map in his lap, glancing repeatedly at the coordinated Dad had written.

“Okay, here’s where Dad went,” he said firmly. “It’s called Blackbottle Ridge, Colorado.”

“Sounds charming.” Dean looked over. “How far?”

“About 600 miles.”

“If we shag ass, we can make it by morning.”

Sam’s smile faded. He sucked his cheek in, looking up at his brother with guilty eyes. He struggled with his words for a moment, not wanting to start another fight. “Dean, I - um…”

He didn’t need to say anything. Not really. Dean was already looking at him with disappointment.

“You’re not going.”

“The interview is in like, ten hours,” Sam pleaded. “I gotta be there.”

Dean looked away. He was quiet for a moment, and then he laughed softly, looking at the road ahead. “Yeah. Yeah, whatever.” His tone was gentle. There was none of the aggression that was there back at the bridge. “I’ll take you home.”

Sam nodded quietly, and turned off his flashlight.

It was midnight by the time Dean pulled out in front of Sam’s apartment. Sam was quiet as he crawled out of the car, pulling his bag over his shoulder. He knelt slightly so he could peer through the window - guilt grabbed at his chest. 

“You’ll call me if you find him?”

Dean nodded. Sam sighed.

“Maybe I can meet up with you later, huh?”

“Yeah, alright.”

Sam patted the door with a smile, turning to head for the gate. Dean turned the car on, and then hesitated.

“Sam.”

Sam paused, turning around. Dean paused, and gave a sheepish grin, shrugging.

“You know, we made a hell of a team back there.”

Sam sighed through his nose, nodded.

“Yeah.”

Dean nodded, and slowly drove off. Sam watched the car as it went down the road, fiddling with the strap on his bag. 

“Jess?”

Jessica didn’t call back when Sam came into the apartment. It was late, in her defense - she was probably passed out. 

“You home?”

As Sam moved further into the apartment, into his bedroom, he could hear the shower running. His nerves calmed, and he sighed, smiling to himself. She was okay. He didn’t know what he had been so worked up over, anyway. Exhausted, Sam let himself fall back against the bed, shutting his eyes - it felt so good to be at home, in his own bed, that he didn’t even mind the dripping against his forehead.

...Dripping?

Sam opened his eyes, and his heart stopped beating.

Jessica was pinned to the ceiling by some invisible force, a deep gash in the middle of her stomach. He wiped at his forehead in a panic. Blood. The dripping had been blood. Terror gripped Sam’s heart.

“ _ No! _ ”

The ceiling, and consequently Jessica, burst into flame.

Sam couldn’t move. He was frozen in place, staring up at his girlfriend in horror. He heard someone call his name - or, he thought he did. He couldn’t focus. It sounded more like an echo. All he could do was lay there, engulfed by heat, and scream. 

“ _ Jess _ ! No - no -!” 

There were hands on him, suddenly - Dean’s. He recognized that. They were yanking on him, pulling him away. Away? Away from Jess? He let himself be forced out of the room, arms tossed limply around Dean’s shoulder. He was staring straight behind him, eyes still locked on the figure on the ceiling. The entire room was in fire, at this point, but all he could do was scream, and plead, and stare.

He wanted to lie down in that bed and burn, too.

Sam was mostly lucid, by the time the fire department arrived. He wasn’t paying attention to the ambulance, or the flashing red lights. He was tucked behind the Impala, silently looking over the various weaponry in the trunk. He heard Dean’s boots crunch in the gravel behind him. He didn’t say anything, and Dean didn’t say anything to him; He just loaded his rifle in silence, tossing it into the trunk. He wasn’t immune to the irony, sick as it may be. 

If whatever this was wanted a goose chase this damn bad, it would get it. Fine by him.

“We got work to do.”

Sam slammed the trunk shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS FOR STICKING WITH ME IF YOU READ THIS WHOLE THING LMAO


End file.
